I have a T1 line at work, so my "refresh" was because I was trying the "open all 14,000 posts and then refresh" technique suggested in another thread to see if it corrected the post total number. It didn't.

I have marching cadence music and Johnny Cash song ads. Darn -- I could really use an acrylic aquarium...I always wanted to design a tubular acrylic aquarium that could be run all the way around the walls of a room (or, ideally, a whole house). The fish could really get up a head of steam, though banking the corners correctly could be tricky.

You cheat at the corners of a tubular fishtank network, and have decent sized vertical tubes there, which could run to the other story, to give you a multi level network. It would take some doing, as there would be quite a bit of pressure at the base, but it would be very interesting.

Mom, I had about 40 kids stop by tonight and I still have candy left over. But it isn't anything I'm too crazy about, so a lot of it will go to work in a few days and let college students munch when they visit our office (library administration). You never waste food when students are nearby. . .

Why is it so many of these folks just tramp all over the yard, and not up the path that is put there for them to walk on? I have a lot of shrubs and things that I don't want them tripping on. I finally got smart and just told them "stay on the path. The grass has stickers (grass burrs)." You get very good compliance when people know they might be getting those sharp as hell little burrs that draw blood when you step on them barefoot on your bedroom floor after they drop off of your shoelace following that trek across the lawn.

Methinks I see a host of threads Spreading their sails with glee Down the Mudcat they do glide All bound for the troubled Sea Me thinks I see on each small thread A few with hearts so brave Going out to spread their tiny thread And vanish in a cave

[Chorus] And it's three and point five Years that Mom's been posting strong Even though the recent fix Has made her number wrong The freds, the Ralphs, the Legion And the poetry as well They've long defied that bitter Night And kept dear MOAB swell!

November's night brought such a sight Twas never seen before There were booze and songs and broken chords A washing on the shore There were many a lass "in trouble" There was many a head was broke, There were many a fine and hearty lad Who had gave a cop a poke.

Yeah -- he 's the one who penned the immortal American popular song, Oh, Cuspidor, Oh, Cuspidor. One of the best sellling hits of all time, but because of a peculiarity in the legal web about authorship, poor Bill never saw a dime of royalties from it.

That's the one. When Bill found that he'd been cheated out of thousands in royalties he took to drinking and gradually slid downhill from Chateau-Neuf-du-Pape to Wild Irish Rose to Ripple to Boone's Farm. Finally he fell off the rods in the Pocatello railyards and stumbled to the Legion Hovel, mistaking it for a hobo camp, albeit a truly low-class hobo camp. After cadging a few bottles of Stompin' Red (a local wine of extremely low moral character) it was discovered that he couldn't pay for them, pity was taken by the Legion Vice Commander, and Bill was given the job of cleaning cuspidors and teaching Theoretical Quark Mechanics at the University (where his personal hygience, dress, and other habits are written off as 'just another professor').

He has a warm bed in the basement of the Hovel, all the beef 'n' beans he wants, a gallon of red a day, and two part-time jobs that are, he says, in many ways very similar.

GET SCREED!

(Bluegrass Banjo intro and tempo count)....

If your mind's forever rambling, And your heart seems to be gamblin' And your inner voice is crying out in need Don'tcha be another Ahab Just drop on by to MOAB, Click on a link, come in and you'll get screed.

Get screed! You'll get screed! The finest scrimshaw prose you ever see'd! When there's no food for reflection And you've a hongry mind to feed, Just come on by to Mom, and you'll get screed

Oh, them MOABites are friendly folk They love to share a kindly joke They're decent, straight and clean in word and deed. But when intellectual starvation Makes you want to try self-defenstration, Just click on MOAB's link, and tyou'll get screed!

Get screed! You'll get screed! The finest scrimshaw prose you ever see'd! When there's no food for reflection And you've a hongry mind to feed, Just come on by to Mom, and you'll get screed

So stop your cogitatin' All that mental flagellation, There's no call for jes' sittin' on the shelf. The thread is out there calling And once you're out there, balling, You'll find you've finally truly screed yourself!!

Get screed! You'll get screed! The finest scrimshaw prose you ever see'd! When there's no food for reflection And you've a hongry mind to feed, Just come on by to Mom, and you'll get screed

Fella from out here had heard about scrod, the fish dish for which Boston is famous, for years. He recently had a chance to go to Boston on business, and in the taxi from the airport he asked the driver, "Pardon me, but do you know where I might get scrod?"

Briver turned around and replied, "Ya know, I've often be asked that, but never before in the pluperfect."

I am the very model of a modern Unix Sysadmin, I've information relevant to programs in slash usr bin, I know the tricks of emacs and the vi bugs historical, From a to ZZ upper case, in order categorical; I'm very well acquainted too with matters of the interface, I understand commands of pine, and how they hurt the human race. About the pico editor I'm teeming with a lot o' bosh – With many cheerful facts of how it's dumber than a Macintosh.

Everyone:

With many cheerful facts of how it's dumber than a Macintosh.

Unix Sysadmin:

I'm very good at showing users how to pick the best of tools, I know I should avoid the nerds who hang out in the vestibules; In short, in matters relevant to programs in slash usr bin, I am the very model of a modern Unix Sysadmin.

Everyone:

In short, in matters relevant to programs in slash usr bin, He is the very model of a modern Unix Sysadmin.

I would have my friends call upon you if I had any. Instead, I have given your name and address to three members of the Legion (Larry, Moe, and Steeple Sam The Big Tall Man) and they will demand satisfaction, if they ever get that far. If they do finally find you and cannot get satisfaction they would post you as an arrant coward and knave, bald-faced liar, a low-down bushwhacking rattlesnake, and someone who tosses his hat on a bed if they were literate and could remember to do so.

(Why is there an ad for polybutylene pipe and no-dig pipe lining at the bottom? I no longer smoke a pipe or anything else.)

Ya know, Rapaire, the self-offense always speaks loudest in accusation. If you look at the recent posts you will find NONE in which I say anything about non-attribution. So perhaps your string of epithets (inclusing that very obscure one about hats and beds) is better suited for mirror-talk. I just said you were a better bottom reader.

Reckon you better come on down and scout the ground for 'em, so they don't get bushwhacked by Red Thunder Bird or any of his cousins. This is still the a-little-bit-wild West.

BTW don't you owe me a PM or somp'n?

Anyway, Mom, I am off to the Wilde Bleue in a big metal bird this afternoon, and will arrive in BWI at 0530 local tomorrow morning. So I abjure all irresponsibilities until I return late Monday. I am Getawaying. I entrust you to the sobersided stay-at-home skills of my dear siblings who will, I know, take the very best care of you until I return to apply first aid and straighten things out.

'S okay, Mom. SRS and I will be here, and so will Bunn, to pat your withered old hand and soothe your fevered brow. And who knows? Maybe others will drop in from time to time to cheer you while Amos is off "cutting a rug" and doing all sorts of wild stuff on the Eastern Shore, drinking rotgut booze and cavorting with floozies and zoot-suiters.

Ya know, Mom, I'd still like to know why the bottomads are for polybutylene pipe and "east lay insulated pipe".

Humph. I knew it. Half off the page with her relevancy trailing in the breeze and her precious validity exposed for just anyone to peek at. Tell ya what, Mom, why'ncha dip into the trust fund Dad left you and come to the Getaway with me?

Wake up, it's a Chesapeake morning! Have you ever seen something so new? Wake up, it's a Chesapeake mornin', There's so much we've been meanin' to do, So wake up, it's a Chesapeake mornin', Let's tell all of the neighborhood too, Wake up to this Chesapeake mornin', And if we see the whole mornin' through, We'll wake up to more Chesapeake mornin's And see all of our Chesapeake daydreams come true.

From the Cumberland hills to Solomon's shore There's a Chesapeake sunrise outside your front door; And its promise will wake you like never before. Can you hear the alarm 'cause it's time to

Chorus

We could work through the cities and farms on our way To where the beautiful swimmers and waterbirds play; 'Til there's nothin' at all between us and the Bay. It's so good we decided today to

I bet MOM is going to spend the weekend finally cleaning out Amos' room. Get a broom under the bed to evict the dust kittens and sweep up all of the electronic bits, wires, chips, fragments of old projects, spare particles and unused neurons bouncing around in his closet. And that spot on the bed where Gluon sleeps--that bedspread HAS to go in the laundry with her atomic power detergent! I hope she remembers to hang it out to dry on the clothes line. We don't want a repeat of what happened the last time when she forgot and put that coverlet in the dryer. The fire department hasn't stopped talking about it, and I think they run fundraising tours past the place.

I hope she doesn't just sort of bunch it up and throw it in the washer. Amos did THAT a couple years ago when he tried to wash out where Gluon had thrown up on his bed, and between Gluon's "ejecta" and the Pu-239 dust from Amos's little projects he managed to reach critical mass. It wasn't much, as nuclear explosions go, but the US Geologic Survey is still wondering where the town went.

WHoa! Look at what Mom found under Amos' bed! I bet he was going to send it to Rapaire for christmas. I hate to spoil the surprise, but he should have hidden it better. She didn't have to pry up many floor boards before she found it.